


Deep Cover for Red Hood!

by Seiberwing



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The Brave and the Bold
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Dysphoria, Earth-3, F/M, Identity Swap, Minor Character(s), Mirror Universe, Mistaken Identity, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Scars, Superheroes, Supervillains, Unrequited Love, implied gore, implied sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-25 15:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2627006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seiberwing/pseuds/Seiberwing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Red Hood, fearless defender of Gotham City, is thrown by the fiendish Owlman into a mirror dimension where good is evil, heros are villains and a man with his face is Gotham's greatest threat. To escape this nightmarish world, Red Hood must team up with the mirror twin of Dr. Harleen Quinzel and figure out Owlman's sinister plan before it's too late. Can our hero track down his nemesis, retrieve the phase oscillator, and make the jump home without losing his sanity in the process?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bad Night, Worse Day

It’s warm in Gotham tonight. Spring’s here early.

I play ‘The Floor is Lava’ with the streets, crossing town without ever touching the ground. Halsted to Beaumont with a right at the beer garden and back down the spine of the theater district to Excelsior Drive. My feet trace the pulse of the city in the roar of the elevated trains across steel pillars and the hum of traffic flowing across the streets like blood through arteries.

Office complexes stretch upward above the brownstones, clad in flickering billboards and lit windows, dazzling me as I pass. The smell of burgers drifts from the vents of restaurants with their fronts whitewashed and bluewashed and painted a dozen more times until there’s more paint than plaster, their alleyside brick still stained by the sign of a company that had gone out of business decades ago.

Below me are the people, so beautiful. The reflective-tape-girded cyclists with their painted mounts and ragged backpacks dodge through traffic with expert agility as the laughing drunkards stroll from one bar to another. Business suits and scanty club attire mingle awkwardly at the bus stops. The men with piercings that stretch their earlobes to the size of silver dollars stand shoulder to shoulder with the women with sunburst hair and tattoos of flowers that circle down their arms to blossom at their wrists.

Fairy lights strung up across the balconies of apartment buildings light up the red of my helmet in passing, and two hands with neon blue nails raise in greeting to me above black lipstick smiles. They cringed when they saw my shadow but the bright color of my cape comforts them. I am not Owlman, I am not the Injustice Syndicate. The Syndicate is dead and in its place the Justice Legion ran up the flag of peace.

Once Owlman’s universe-trotting doppelganger took him down we started getting heroes popping out of the woodwork. People rose to champion Gotham--fanged giants with the hearts of puppies, green goddesses who can heal with a touch, gangly rag-clad men who wield fear as a weapon for good. There’s people on the west coast, in England, in Japan, in Kenya. Keystone City’s got a full gang of goofballs watching over the place, halfway between a crimefighting team and a weekend social club. All kinds of folks who wanted to make a difference but thought they didn’t have a chance of making it out alive until Batman showed us how it was done. Weirdos, sure, but we’re all weird here. I love it.

Batman was right. We started something the night the Syndicate went down. 

The commlink in my hood gives a beep. _Hood._

“Yo.”

_Get back to the tower. Big Bird’s flown the coop._

“What? When?”

_Alarms went off two minutes ago. We need you, Red Hood._

It’s cold in Gotham tonight.

****

This stupid elevator isn’t going fast enough. I repeatedly jam my thumb into the button, a metaphor for the futility of our efforts to affect the course of destiny, and find that I am alone in a cold and uncaring box.

We’ve turned Owlman’s old base into a command center, ever since we kicked out the former owners and repossessed the weaponry. It’s a nice place. Even has a gym and pool on the third floor. The observatory on the top floor still has gold leaf around the ceiling and the big pompous dais overlooking the city but the giant owl statue is gone—we ritually pushed it out the window when we moved in.

The Cypher, self-titled ‘World’s Greatest Detective’, is bent over one of the consoles with one hand frantically typing and the other wielding the mouse like a weapon. It looks like he’s about to sweat his way out of his purple bowler hat. Timekeeper is on the one beside him, his clockface mask showing 10:35pm as he scans security footage over and over again.

“What the Sam Hill happened? How did we lose him?”

“That’s still the riddle of the day,” says Cypher, not looking up from the screen. “We’ve got every available Rogue searching the area but he could be anywhere. For all we know he’s left the planet entirely. We can’t even see how he got out of the building.”

“He was in an induced coma! You don’t just escape from those!”

Timekeeper’s face ticks away another minute. His voice is calm with focus, clashing with Cypher’s hysteria, but I know he’s flipping out internally. “Someone swapped the chemicals with a placebo. Whoever helped him escape was never even in the room with him. They sabotaged our equipment, then let him wake up slowly and do the rest on his own.” 

“Who did it, then?”

Cypher throws up one hand in frustration. “I don’t _always_ have the answers!”

We’re in really bad shape if the Cypher is admitting he doesn’t know something. Crud crud crud. Owlman’s got a lot of allies and we’ve got a lot of enemies. Could be Blue Bowman’s old girlfriend Banshee or one of the Talons, or…I haven’t got time for this. I make my brain switch gears.

Owlsy and I have been playing the game for a while. I know him. He never does anything without a plan, and a backup plan, and another behind that. Laying there half-asleep for days with nothing better to do, he’d make a lot of plans. He’d have a lot to think about. Aside from a really good donut, what would he want first…

My feet are running before my mouth is, and Timekeeper doesn’t ask questions before chasing me with sword in hand. “The vault!” I yell back to Cypher. “He’s after the phase oscillator!” 

I slam the turbo button on the elevator and me and Timekeeper drop like rocks down to the bottom floor, where we keep the captured weaponry too dangerous to turn to the side of good. 

“Escape, that’s too small scale. He wants revenge on the guys that brought down his empire and he’ll start at the top.”

“Batman, ja?” 

“Bingo.”

The phase oscillator’s still in the vault when we get there. Unfortunately, so’s Owlman. The set of feet slamming into my helmet and the whistle of a throwing knife past my throat is almost amusing in its familiarity. I haven’t missed our dance at all but I fall into it by reflex. The kicks, the dodges, the throwing blades, the banter. 

“Playtime’s over, Owlman! It’s back to bed for you!” It’s stupid, I know, but it annoys him and any edge I can get is an edge I can stick between his ribs.We dodge each others’ blades, the elegant intro to our intimate waltz, until he picks up a crate and chucks it at my head. The dark room becomes even more incoherent as an arsenal of smokebombs all go off at once. My helmet filters out the gas and I wave the smoke away with my cape, my enemy a blurring shape with a long cylinder pointed in my direction

There’s a flash in the fog behind me, the sound of rushing wind as the smoke is whirled away to reveal his Owlman’s dark suit and the flashing eyes of his mask. For a half-second I’m thrown back to that horrible night in the old warehouse, where my hesitancy earned Owlman the ability to hop from our world to Batman’s and nearly doomed them both. As I make a grab for the phase oscillator Owlman slams into my body, throwing me back into the portal. I feel my stomach twisting as we fall endlessly through spiraling space. His fingers in my suit are the only solid point in the world until the bright glare of the midday sun blinds me and we slam down onto hot asphalt.

Crud crud _crud_. I wish I was better at swearing so I could put more emphasis on the situation.

Owlman’s boot lands on the back of my neck and I hear the whoosh of the portal closing behind me. Before I can get my hands under me I feel a blade snap down the length of my spine, splitting my tux jacket in half to reveal the reinforced lining underneath. “Stab vest,” Owlman notes, flipping me over to do the same to my front. “Ultra-high molecular weight polyethylene, I bet. So you do learn.” 

“I just wanted to dress up pretty for you, Owlsy.” He’s not going for my throat, which is sad because I put a gorget into the newest version of my costume and I really wanted to show it off. He slashes again and again, slamming me down every time I resist until my chest is bruised and shirt is hanging in tatters around me but never making a go for my personal flesh.

“You’ve heard what the definition of insanity is, right?” I grunt, trying to force the air to my lungs. “Doing the same thing over and over, hoping for a different result?” A heel to his groin finally loosens his grip enough that I can throw him off. I roll to my feet only to get knocked down again.

“Like thinking you can go up against me without consequences?” Every instinct I have says to run. In a straight up fair fight Owlman can usually beat me, and he rarely lets me have a fair fight. When he’s smirking like that the odds are even lower. But he’s got the phase oscillator and I never claimed to be sane myself. The blade strikes down centimeters from my collarbone and finds the latch holding my helmet to my vest. He throws his weight against it and I hear a loud snap echo through the safety of my helmet. 

I do not have a panic attack. I have temporary epinephrine overload due to an overenthusiastic response of the sympathetic nervous system. That’s very different and does not mean I have a tendency to blue-screen when people forcibly expose my hideously scarred face.

And the jerk knows it. Owlman yanks me to my feet by my stringy green hair while I’m trying to get my breath back. “Welcome to Gotham,” he whispers in my ear, chuckling the way I hear in my nightmares, and kicks me out of the alleyway. I lay on the sidewalk, shuddering, sure the knife will slide into my neck at any moment. When I finally turn over he’s disappeared. 

And the son of a sailor took my helmet with him.

I stand up awkwardly, brushing the gravel from my knees. Right. Plans. Muster the troops. The skyline above me, looks like one of those kid’s puzzles, ‘Find 15 things wrong with this picture’. I can recognize just enough to hazard a guess what neighborhood I’m in, but there’s buildings where buildings shouldn’t be. And trees. And children playing in the street, which you’d never get in a Gotham with Owlman in it. 

Right, focus. First order of business is to contract the locals, let them know Birdbrain’s back in their territory. Batman took him down once, already, he can do it again. I head for the nearest Gothamite, a broad-shouldered man walking a dopey-eyed dog whose ears trail the ground.

“Excuse me, could you—“ The moment he sets eyes on me he shrieks and tears off running, the wrinkles on his basset hound rippling as it gallops to keep up. Geeze, I knew I was ugly, but…

Everyone else is staring now. People are grabbing their children and pulling them away. A snack vendor hides behind his truck. My hand reaches up unbidden to touch the curved corners of my mouth as the epinephrine threatens to run wild again.

“Call the police!” 

“Get away from him before he gasses you!” 

“Oh god, please, I have children!” 

It’s like every Frankenstein’s monster nightmare I’ve ever had, with the mere sight of my face driving folks into a frenzy. My chest is tight. I hold my hands up. “Come on, folks. I swear, I’ve got a great personality.”

“Call the cops! Call Batman!” 

“Yes, call Batman! Good idea!” I point at the clever woman, who recoils as if my finger is a gun. “Call Batman and we’ll get this all settled up!”

Sirens shriek and my optimism is squashed again. I hate cops. Not all cops, or the idea of cops, but any given Gotham cop will be on the take from the Syndicate. We never get on well. But this is supposed to be a better world and I make myself stay in place while the streets clear out and the first car arrives on the scene. A pudgy man in a trenchcoat and a dark-haired woman pop out, guns raised, and I’ve already got my hands up. Heart’s still racing.

“Get down on the ground and put your hands over your head, scumbag!” snarls the one who thinks he’s in a Humphrey Bogart movie.

“I think there’s been some sort of misunderstanding,” I call back. My voice is wavering, nearly laughing with how ridiculous this feels, but I doubt that’ll impress the locals.

‘Drop your weapons and get down or I’m turning you into swiss cheese!”

‘I’m really more like mozzarella. Soft, white, good with noodles.” I palm a throwing blade. Take out the guns, smokebomb for cover, and then beat it like a drum recital. Simple. I’m about to bend my arm back when a blur of red comes flying over nowhere to do the job for me. One cop drops from a kick to the face, another from a punch to the gut. My rescuer does two elegant backflips to grab my arm and tow me away. “C’mon, let’s blow this pop stand!”

Looks like I’ve found a friend. I run after her, though I’ve got no idea where we’re going. Anything’s better than standing out in the open like a turkey staring at rain. We hop privet fences and race through backyards, feet hammering past twisting pinwheels and mirrored sunglobes resting on pedestals over bright flowerbeds. I’m too busy watching my step to get a good look at my rescuer beyond a nice set of legs in that tight red and black spandex. My favorite colors, I like her already. She’s giggling as we tear through back alleys and vault over dumpsters while the cops take the slow route on untrained feet. When we finally land in the back of an unmarked van I’m giggling too. It’s infectious, and I’m so confused.

My rescuer climbs into the front seat and takes the wheel. “Some run, huh, puddin’?” 

“No kidding.” I gasp, watching the sway of the pom-poms hanging from her hood as she jerks at the clutch. “You got some timing there.” I flop down onto the van floor, which for some reason has purple shag carpeting on it. Right now the soft place to lay my head is appreciated. My mask is gone, I’m stuck in another world and Owlman’s got the phase oscillator, I get one more problem and I’m just going to straight-up crack.

“Aw, Mr. Jay.” She knows my double. Girlfriend, maybe, with the tender way she’s saying it. I mull my options as we pull away. The ethical thing is to tell her who I am straight off, but it might not be the smart thing. I don’t know this world, or her, and she’s the only ally I have. Until I figure out what the heck’s going on in the Bat-world and what Owlman’s part is in it, I need to play my cards close to my chest. I take a deep breath and sit up, readying myself to play the part of a man I’ve never met.

Any other thoughts I have fall away when she pushes back the hood to wipe the sweat from her brow. I see a shock of blonde hair and catch a glimpse of twinkling blue eyes and a grin in the side mirror of the van. The laugh bubbles in my throat, forces its way out like a charging rhino and the endorphins have won because I’m cackling so hard there’s barely any room to breathe. 

There’s that final straw. My double’s dating Harleen Quinzel.


	2. Joke Shop

The aftermath of Owlman’s makeover was a bad time in my life. With my skin bleached white and my mouth twisted into a freakish smile that wouldn’t go away no matter how much I frowned, I couldn’t even go out in public without being a big target for Syndicate. No amount of makeup would keep away the stares or the flinches from the people around me. I couldn’t work, or go out to dinner, or get a date without using a chatroom. Owlman had marked me permanently and won a victory I could never recover from. I hid in my apartment for days, fighting the urge to take my rage out on the beautiful pedestrians outside my window or tear my own skin off in the hopes that something better was underneath all that chalky white. A lot of breakables lost their lives that week. I got close to…some bad stuff, that week.

Finally I snuck out to one of my other hideouts, sat down in front of a mirror and stared myself down. Must have been there a good hour, looking down the monster Owlman had made me. I made myself memorize every curve of that ghastly grin, the shadows across pale flesh, the grass-green hair hanging down in greasy strands over my forehead. I stared until I stopped denying what I had become. Then I smashed the mirror and went to see the head of Arkham Asylum. 

Dr. Quinzel and I had worked together in the past, back when she was just a rank and file psychiatrist at Arkham and I was a fledgling superhero. The big brass was doing experiments on their patients, trusting that no one would believe the ones lucid enough to know what was happening to them. Harleen and I blew the whole thing wide open. Credit went to me, but she wanted it that way. Whistleblowing’s bad for your career. She’s a good woman. Smart as anything, brave in ways I could never be, and I’ve seen hungry bears with less determination to achieve their goals. I punch the worst of the worst in the face—she tries to pull them back from the dark side.

I wasn’t thinking too clearly when I called her up at quarter to midnight and told her I needed a lifeline. I came over, sat in her living room for a few hours. We talked. I wasn’t feeling any prettier when I left but I made it through the night. I was back the next evening, we talked some more—god knows when she slept—and I finally took the helmet off for her.

She didn’t tell me it wasn’t so bad. Didn’t say anything about it at all. She just talked me through realizing it didn’t mean my whole life was over. I made it through the night, and the week, and the month. After that the heroes started coming to me—first the locals like Timekeeper, then people like Devil Ray and Comrade Grodd, people pledging their support to the one man who’d had the guts to stand up to the Owl. I had other things to focus my mind on. Plans to make, even if the entire thing eventually degenerated into a clustercatastrophe…but we’re getting away from the point. The point is that Dr. Quinzel saved my sanity. 

And to my grave misfortune, I’ve got a crush on her. She doesn’t know, obviously. I’m a jobless freak risking his life nightly for unending causes and I doubt any woman would get the hots for a guy who she’s seen sobbing over how ugly he is. We still talk, usually when she’s got a hot tip for me, but I never let on how I feel about her. I can’t deal with being let down easily.

And here I am, being chauffeured off to a secret hideout by a costumed Harleen who keeps calling me cutesy names like “pudding’ and ‘joker’. My twin better appreciate how lucky he is or I’ll hate him more than I already do.

 

“You all right, Mr. Jay? You’ve been kinda quiet.”

“Just had some thinking to do, sweetheart.” The words feel bitter and heavy on my tongue but I manage to keep up the perkiness. She giggles as we pull into a garage on the backside of a nondescript two-story brick building.

“Big plans?” 

“You know it, babe.”

“Ooh, I’m all tingly already.” Her giggle makes my heart ache. I wonder again what my double is like. Is he a chatterbox? Does she listen in amusement as he rattles off grand plans, or does he fawn over her with flowery language and poetry? I don’t know the first thing about poetry. Maybe he just tells her knock-knock jokes. She plants a kiss on my cheek, then skips of with the promise of a homecooked meal for her clever comedian. I go snooping around the lair for clues on my double. 

The place looks like an old toy store, or a very large joke shop. Rusty cabinets and an overcomplicated piece of machinery are hidden under dropcloths and yellow smiley faces are spray-painted on the walls. A set of stairs in the back leads to an equally messy apartment on the second floor, strewn with dirty laundry and novelty items. A large stuffed bear is tucked into the bed and there’s a rubber chicken in the toilet. It looks like a hurricane with an immature sense of humor whirled through the place and for some reason it’s giving me the creeps. 

What I really need is a way to get in touch with Batman, but I doubt you can just call his private phone or send up a signal to get at him. In my experience heroes tend to not want to be found. 

In the bedroom I find an old desktop computer with stickers all over it. When all the world’s turned on you, there’s always Bing there to give you a hand and a cute doodle above the search bar. The internet’s never let me down before.

The internet immediately lets me down. There’s no records of a Red Hood in Gotham, bar some kids’ plays about fairy tales, and even under my real name I’m not finding anyone with what used to be my face. No Timekeeper either, or Dr. Lodestone, or Commander Chill’s Central City Knaves. It’s as if my allies and I don’t exist. Comrade Grodd gets me some news articles but they’re about some ape supremacist megalomaniac, not the civilized philosopher who finds violence an appalling last resort. 

On a whim, I swap from hero names to the real names for the few I’ve seen behind my friends’ masks. That starts getting me hits…even if I don’t like what I find. 

Wilhelm Tockmann, clock-obsessed criminal. Sinestro, world-conqueror. Edward Nygma, thief and madman. Waylon Jones, monster. (Genevieve Tetch takes the prize in weird – criminal, psychopathic and male.) It makes a twisted sense but I can only bear it so long. My friends are villains here, and by that logic so am I…but who am I? 

I quickly close the window on a picture of Harvey Dent robbing a bank with the scars on the wrong half of his face as I hear footsteps on the stairs. “Dinner’s ready!” Harley carries in a giant bowl of pasta and meatballs with a delicate herb spring on the top and a tiny pitchfork jammed into the top of it. I smile and try to pretend I’m not feeling queasy. “You know how to treat a guy.”

“Anything for you, joker.” She kisses my temple and saunters back downstairs. Clearly I exist if I have a girlfriend, but searching on my own name brings up nothing. How can my double not have the slightest shred of evidence for his…

Oh, I’m a moron. I shovel down a bite of pasta and turn my attention back to the computer. My sauce-stained hands peck out the words “Harleen Quinzel”. I don’t like the results but at least this time I expect them. Crazy criminal clown-girl The news articles all have the words ‘committed’ or ‘arrested’ in their titles, but one phrase catches my attention. **Well known lover and accomplice of the Joker.**

She’s been calling me by my title all night and I’ve been assuming it’s a nickname. I am definitely a moron. Before I can talk myself out of it I do a search on “Joker” and I find my own face staring back at me.

No, not my face. There’s a sadistic glee to his expression in nearly every picture, even the mug shots. His eyes have a sharpness that I never saw in my own reflection and he’s got more of a slouch to his stance, but the family resemblance is enough that I am distinctly uncomfortable. His rap sheet reads like black comedy and the lingering remains of my appetite fade as I read on in trainwreck fascination. Murders, assaults, mass poisonings, destruction on a massive scale, bombs planted in high traffic areas. Because he finds it _funny_. No wonder they were so terrified of me. My double is the worst monster of the lot.

“Joker?” 

“Yeah?” 

I’m barely paying attention, opening tab after tab of news reports. I don’t know what I’m hunting for, maybe some shred of evidence that shows my double has a brighter side to him, but all I see are people’s grins stretched out in a poison rictus as Joker goes on a rampage to make everyone as disfigured as we are. 

“I got your favorite for dessert. Lemon meringue.” 

“Sounds wonderful, babe.” 

Cold metal presses to the back of my neck. I wonder, far too late, what kind of woman ‘Harley Quinn’ must be to find such a sociopath attractive. 

“Joker hates lemon meringue.” 

Well, shoot. My hands slowly go up behind my head. “If it helps, so do I. I was just being polite.” My heart is racing but at least the gun is familiar. Guns I can handle. I can’t handle Joker and I can’t handle Harleen Quinzel.

“Joker hates that too. Who are you and what did you do with Mr. Jay?”

I take a deep breath. “First, I didn’t do anything to him. I’ve never so much as met the guy -- or heard of him until a few minutes ago.” I left my pinky to indicate the current browser window, featuring my double hitting Batman with a grinning dead fish.

“Who’s never heard of the Joker?” She’s getting more ticked off. Time to go for broke. I don’t know enough about this place to know what lies will get that gun away from the back of my neck, so if she doesn’t buy this I’m going to have to punch the woman I love.

“His good twin who was kidnapped from another universe by an evil twin of Batman.” There’s a long pause and I brace myself for laughter or a bullet. 

The pressure eases up, though the barrel is still brushing the hairs on the back of my neck. “You mean that guy who was impersonating Batman a while back? Birdman or something?” 

“Yes!” I half-turn, finding myself in the strange position of being grateful to my nemesis. The truth is getting me in trouble but it’s so satisfying to finally drop the lie, and I’m grinning despite myself. “He stranded me here and stole my costume right before you showed up. You’re the only one who hasn’t either attacked me or run for the hills…I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Harley laughs and pulls the gun back from my head. “Makes sense enough,’ she says, hip cocked and gun-arm hanging at her side. “You look alike, but you don’t act a thing like him.”

I don’t’ tell her how big a compliment I find that statement. My hands finally lower. “I’ll leave if you want. All I’m looking for is a way to stop—“ 

“You can stay.” She’s looking me up and down like I’m a fancy car she wants to steal. “Joker’s no fan of Owlman and you got a cute face.” Harley reaches down and pinches my cheek. “I’ll go do the bed up.”

This dimension will be the death of me. Harley makes me finish my pasta and coconut cream pie (which _is_ my favorite type) and loans me Joker’s PJs to sleep in. They have little “HAHA”s on them. I’m halfway through changing when I hear a loud whistle from the door.

“So you don’t look exactly like him.”

Harley’s leaning on the doorframe. Out of reflex I hold the shirt up to cover my chest because she’s _looking_ at me and I’d be more terrified if today hadn’t wrung all the adrenaline out of me like I’m a wet sponge. “Oh?” I ask in a high pitched voice.

She crosses the room and pulls the shirt down again, tongue touching the corner of her lips. “You got more muscle on you. More scars too.” 

“Crimefighter. Gotta stay in shape or I’d have even more scars.” She runs her fingers along the curve of raised flesh above my stomach. My skin prickles. 

“There’s a Harley in your universe, right? What’s she like?”

“Well, a Harleen Quinzel. Just Harleen.” The title makes her pout. “She’s the head of Arkham Aslyum, which is-“ 

Harley’s laughter gives me a chance to yank my shirt on again. “I know Arkham, I used to work there before my puddin’ came along. Now I’ve got my own private room there. Guess your Harleen ain’t the adventurous type, but I bet you take real good care of her, right?” Her finger traces over my chest, over the scar Owlman gave me 

“I-our relationship is completely professional. Totally platonic. She’s not 'my' Harley.”

“Uh huh.” Her smile is sadder now, black-painted lips turned downward at the very corners. “I get it. You love her but she don’t love you.” 

“I don’t.” 

“Your eyes get all moony when you talk about her. I know how that is.” 

“But I thought you and Joker...” 

“He ain’t never like you are. Takes me for granted, doesn’t notice for days when I’m gone. Plays hard, doesn’t know when to let up, and if you don’t like his joke he blows up in your face. Tried to kill me a few times, even.” I let her rant, heart aching. So even my double can’t do right by his girl. The chalk-white men are batting zero for two on Harleens. “We ain’t even done it once, and it’s not like I haven’t been throwing out hints.” She huffs, batting a pom-pom out of her face. “You know how I guessed you were a fake? Because you were sweet to me, and he never is.” 

“I’m sorry.” I look out the dirty window across the worn tarmac of the building next door, because if I look at her I’m going to imagine what pain he’s given her. Harley slips an arm around me from behind, fingers tight on my hipbone, the other hand going for a walk along my thigh. It really has been a while if I can’t tell when a woman’s trying to seduce me until she’s got her hand up my shirt. My fingers rest on her wrist.” “So why are you still with him?” 

“Because love is dumb.” Her other hand clenches on my hip and her chin rests on my shoulder. Her grip is tighter than I thought it would be. “And I’m pretty dumb too.”

“You’re…you’re not her. This isn’t right.”

“I’m a good actor.”

“I’m not him.”

“You’re close enough.” 

“We shouldn’t do this.”

“I ain’t hearing you say no.”

She twists my head back and kisses me. The day comes crashing down on me, the knowledge that I’m totally alone in this crazy world with no idea how I’ll get home, and I’m gone. My hands are in her hair, her lips on my throat. 

“Mr. J.” 

“I love you, Harleen.” 

“Love you, Joker.” 

“Jackie. Call me Jackie. Please.” 

“Jackie.”

***

Afterwards I sleep harder than I have in weeks. The jet lag between universes means I’ve been awake for at least a day and a half. I wake up with Harley sprawled beside me with her fingers laced through mine. My palm lays flat against her chest. I can feel her heartbeat and her gentle breathing as she sleeps and for a moment I’m content. I can pretend.

I shift slightly, toes curling around a discarded sock tangled in the blankets. It’s so warm that I could fall right back asleep if it wasn’t for something I can’t put my finger on that’s crawling around under my skin. When I raise my head Harley mumbles in her sleep and sets in to snoring. My hand slides a few inches up and I abruptly realize what’s been bugging me.

Her heartbeat is on the wrong side of her chest.

I need to get out of here. Destination unnecessary. I just need to move. I leave a hasty BRB note on the pillow and pull on a pair of sweatpants and one of Joker’s plaid shirts as a barrier against the neon lights. The street’s too dangerous but when do I ever take the easy way? I haul myself up the window and scramble up to the roof. Time to run.


	3. Lots of Running, Occasional Sitting

I’ve always been a good runner. It was the first skill I learned, long before I learned to fight or put together a good joke. It’s not so great when it comes to commitment, but it’s damn good at saving your life when you’re young, stupid, and think the world’ll go easy on a man who makes it laugh.

Way far back in the day, I used to do stand-up comedy. My jokes weren’t that great, I was rehashing old ground and not doing it particularly well. People laughed but it was more out of pity than humor. When I went back through my routine I thought I might throw a little controversy into the mix to shake people up, so I went after the target nobody else would touch—the town’s newest crime boss, an urban legend/serial killer going by the name of Owlman. Punch up, not down, that’s how it goes, and I punched about as high as I could get.

Now, I wasn’t playing to the world’s biggest crowd here. I figured Owlman wouldn’t care if some two bit comedian was making chirp-chirp noises and poking fun at his dorky costume—I figured he wouldn’t even _know_. The awkward giggles turned into full on laughs, laughs of relief and joy as I went through and clobbered the mystique people had built up around him. You laugh and something and it’s not scary anymore. Hell, even I didn’t think he was such a big deal by the end of my show.

The club owner called me back that night to see if I’d come down and sign a long-term contract with him. I was over the moon. I thought I’d really hit the big time and found my voice. Turns out people don’t like it when you mock the guy they’ve been paying protection money to. They talk. When I got to the club _he_ was there waiting for me.

It was the first time I’d seen Owlman in the flesh and the costume wasn’t dorky. At all. It was terrifying. He caught me by the throat and squeezed, cutting off my feeble excuses for my behavior. I remember his slitted yellow lenses reflecting my own eyes back at me. 

“Do you think you’re funny?” 

I shook my head furiously, knees weak under me. 

“You’re just scum that doesn’t know its place.” 

I nodded about as hard as I could. My words were stuck in my throat. 

“Just a little bug that needs burning.”

“Yuh-yes…” 

He smiled. “Get the gasoline.” 

His two goons grabbed my arms, doing more to keep me from collapsing than to hold me in place. I remember the club owner protesting. He wasn’t begging for my life, he was complaining that they were going to make his building my funeral pyre. Nothing felt real, it felt like a windup to a joke and any minute an anvil was going to fall and break the tension.

Terror paralyzed me until the gas splashed on my face and the pleas came rushing out of me. I screamed and no one cared. I begged and he just stood there enjoying it. 

“Opening your mouth was what got you in trouble. It’s not going to save you now.” 

A light flared up in his hand, putting his ghoulish little smile in deeper shadow. I stared at it, moth to flame, jaw hanging loose in helpless terror.. The goons let my arms go as the match flew up into the air. My only thought was ‘not like this’. 

And what my brain wouldn’t do, my legs did for me.

The swim at Ace Chemicals was one of the worst nights of my life but nothing’s going to top that run from the Cracker-Jack Box to the Burrows St. Bridge. He followed me from the sky as I raced through traffic like a terrified rabbit. I cut my hands on bare wire clambering over chain link fences and didn’t heed the trucks screeching to a halt as I ran by. It didn’t matter if I died as long as he didn’t catch me.

At Burrows and Wells I ran into the bridge over the TransMetro train tracks, with the North District line bearing down at me at commuter speed. Owlman expected me to stop, I’m sure, but I’d gone beyond rational. I’d take the train over his claws.

I leapt from the bridge, slamming down onto the car roof, skidding across the metal as I rolled over the side. By my gas-slick, bloody fingertips I caught a handle by the car door and yanked my feet away from the racing wheels, clinging until my fingers were numb. My dirty face pressed to the door as the train clattered out of the city.

Owlman didn’t follow. Maybe he assumed I was dead, or punished enough for my sins. He wasn’t there when they kicked me off in Bludhaven, sweaty and still reeking of gasoline, but I kept on running. I took odd jobs and charity where I could, never living in the same place for too long. Nowhere felt comfortable anymore. I kept seeing Owlman on the ledges of buildings or lurking in dark alleyways, thought that every act of charity was a ploy to lure me somewhere quiet where they could incinerate me. The smell of gas even lost me a job at a garage—one whiff and I spent an hour curled up in the bathroom.

I even got a job on a cargo ship, thinking the roaming lifestyle would be a good place to settle, and wound up deserting anyway once we hit France. From La Pallice I ran to Paris, harboring some dream of finding my peace through drinking wine in cafes and flirting with women in berets. Never mind that I was in the country illegally and spoke barely any French, it was just an excuse I used to pretend I didn’t have a plan at all. The Parisian cafes brought no balm, just leeched more of my money and once again I found myself running the skyline. Paris was bright and the air felt clean in my lungs, but it didn’t take away that itch under my skin. 

I was catching my breath on a penthouse balcony (and drinking out of the birdbath) when this crazy old man stuck his arm out the window and yanked me inside. He asked me what I was doing and while I was flopping all over his carpet I told him it wasn’t his business. I ran where I wanted, and his birdbath smelled like mold anyway. He laughed, the bastard. He said if he could beat me to the Seine a few miles away he’d make it his business, and if not he’d buy me a drink. 

“Don’t have a heart attack, gramps,” I said, and figured that I could use it as an excuse to lose him. No guy his age should have been able to move that fast across smokestacks and fire escapes. By the time I got to the river he was waiting for me with a mimosa, not winded in the least and not even deigning to be smug about it.

I drank, he talked. The old man needed a valet and he knew I needed baguette money. Said I could have the job if I agreed to become his apprentice—to not question anything he dealt out, to follow him around and learn to do what he did. I accepted. It seemed like the sort of thing a rich eccentric would do and I figured I could leave as soon as things got too ridiculous.

I spent the next five years following the old man around the world and training myself up as a superhero. I carried his bags and he showed me how to run with purpose. How to stand my ground, too, and strike back at an enemy who thinks he’s found just another easy victim. He turned a guy with no life direction beyond next week into the scalpel that would cut away the cancer that had reached down to Gotham’s tender marrow. (The old guy had a thing for weird metaphors.)

R’as al Ghul was the first good man I’d met in my life and he gave me everything that I am. I haven’t seen him since I started the Red Hood gig…hope he thinks I was worth it.

***

I run until I’m sweating through Joker’s ratty shirt. The city’s just wrong enough under my feet that I miss my footing a few times. A gas station’s a Greek restaurant; a vacant lot is a three story brownstone. It’s just more reminders that I don’t really belong here. By the time I loop back to the hideout the sky’s lightening, and the chimneys are throwing sharp shadows against the cement against the brick walls. I feel like Professor Moriarty trying to catch Sherlock Holmes, only Moriarty had an actual clue.

“You’re a deucedly hard man to find, Jackie Napier.”

Against the pale light of lit billboards and street lamps a single shadow is standing on its own, its form outlined by silver threads like starlight framing the blackness of space. The lines suggest the body of a man dressed in the high style of a century and a half ago, topped with a monocle and top hat. A dark cloak flows behind him, unaffected by the faint breeze. The clothes hold his form but there’s no visible body beneath them. Where the head should be there’s only empty space and the glint of light off a dark monocle.

And ain’t that a glorious sight. “James Gentleman Craddock Ghost, what the hell are you doing here?” I’m laughing with relief. Finally, _finally_ something familiar in this ridiculous funhouse mirror of a world. If he wasn’t dead, ten feet up, and more concerned about dignity than I’ll ever be I’d give him a great big hug.

“Looking for you, obviously.” 

The Gentleman Ghost and I go way back, before I was even Red Hood. A hundred and forty years ago he was a notorious highwayman who went by the moniker 'Gentleman Jim', and was sentenced to execution for all manner of crimes that he really doesn’t want to talk about. The night before his appointment with the hangman he prayed to be delivered from his fate, promising to atone for his sins in return. The angel Asteroth appeared to him in his cell and accepted his offer, conveniently leaving out the part where delivering him from the grave didn't mean doing anything to stop the execution itself. The night after his hanging he arose from his tomb as a restless but dapper ghost.

Jim spent a few decades getting over being pissed about that. By the time I found him he was wandering London aimlessly, terrorizing muggers and trying to pick up blind chicks in pubs. When I went back to Gotham he followed me, figuring he’d have more of a chance to do good there. Now he’s the head of our operations in Europe, the much-beloved guardian of England.

“How did you make it over here without the flux capacitor?"

“It’s quite the story, actually.” He takes a seat on the top of a vent and I perch beside him, one leg to my chest. 

One of the things that my people do well is organize. (Organize is a good word to use so it doesn’t sound like we’ve been succeeding via the power of friendship.) Once they’d dragged Timekeeper out of the vault and forcefed him coffee the Rogues Gallery realized what had happened, and they dropped everything in the name of getting me back.

Dr. Sivana, the man who built the phase oscillator in the first place, went into hiding with his children after the incident with Master Marvel. (He may or may not be on the moon.) Our token genius brain in a jar Cerebrum offered his expertise but phase oscillation was way beyond his realm of expertise.

Cypher finally shook the hero phone tree hard enough to shake out Neal Emerson, formerly the magnet-slinging Dr. Lodestone. Lodestone hung up the cape after Owlman’s defeat but being on the speakers’ list for an alternative medicine conference isn’t the best way to lay low from your former friends. He didn’t have the answers, but he would have the connections. These mad scientist types always love to rant to each other.

Jim showed up in his hotel room with Cerebrum on one arm and his consort Monsieur Mallah on the other. No one likes to argue with a French gorilla with an eight foot armspan and an upset disembodied boyfriend, and Emerson was quick to direct them to a guy in Switzerland who’d been working on dimensional travel via astral projection. (Which sounded pretty ridiculous to me, except I’m talking to a ghost so I really don’t get to complain about that.)

Dr. Ecks was pretty stoked to have someone finally take an interest in his theories with any degree of authority. His hypothesis stated that the only barrier to putting matter through the “veil of worlds” was that all matter contained mass. Only something without mass could break through the barrier, which was why Ecks had picked the strange double major of theoretical physics and paranormal studies. He knew how to part the veil, but not how to part astral body from fleshy mass without killing them first. 

(“But, to our great fortune, I am already dead and I haven’t been to Mass in centuries. A few scented candles and tesla coils later and here I am.”)

The mirror world had been kinder to Jim than it had to me. He’d tracked me through interrogation of the local criminal scene, going from thug to thug with the ghastly visage that he usually hides behind a glamour of invisibility and vivid descriptions of the sensation of dangling at the end of a hemp rope. Joker’s not popular, but he’s infamous. The trembling confessions had narrowed the search range enough for him to finally track me down in the flesh.

It’s good work. It’s also fast work, too fast. I cross my arms as my heels tap at the metal panel of the vent I’ve taken a seat on. “How did you manage to put all that together in thirty six hours?”

One pale glove goes to the approximate location of Jim’s mouth. “Thirty-six…oh, dear. Dr. Ecks said this could happen.”

“Said what would happen?”

“It was a bit complicated for me, quantum this and relative that, and then an overcomplicated metaphor involving undead cats—”

“The point, Jim.”

“The jump wasn’t just dimensional, but temporal. You may have been _here_ less than two days, but you’ve been _gone_ for nearly a month.”

Aaaagh. I slide forward until my head is nearly hanging between my knees. This situation just gets worse and worse. With everyone scrambling to get me back I don’t want to think about what they’ve been neglecting. When I left the Founders’ Keepers were making noises about sending another patriotism-themed violent “message” to America, Eel O’Brian slithered his way out of jail two days (and four weeks) ago, and god knows what the Atlanteans are doing. Owlman was a menace but at least he kept the rest of the Syndicate in line, and without him cracking the whip we’ve been putting out fires every week.

I’m making a mess and I’m not even over there to be blamed for it.

“There may be some bright spot,” says Jim, trying to find something that’ll yank me out of my funk. Good luck. “One thug claimed to have conversed with a man in a dark brown costume who was, and I quote, ‘like the Batman but even freakier’. Our common enemy wants the Joker too—but tell me, what about this man is so terrifying that they fear him as much as me?” 

“Everything.”

My description of Joker makes the monocle pop right off Jim’s lack of face. I lay out what’s happened to me since I got dropped here, pseudonyming Harley as ‘one of Joker’s employees’ and leaving out our affair.

“It really is a different world…”

“Ridiculously so. My guess is he stole my helmet to get me mistaken for Joker, but that can’t be the end of it. He’s got a bigger plan cooking. This place is a nightmare, Jim, we need to grab him and get out of here before things go even crazier.” 

The door to the roof creaks and Jim vanishes like smoke on the wind. I whirl around to see two hastily made pigtails and a sleepy grin. Harley’s lounging in the doorway, sleep still glazing over her eyes, wearing nothing but bunny slippers and a frilly pink negligée. “I thought you’d run off and left me all alone,” she said, mock-pouting with her finger to her lip.” 

“I left you a note.” 

“Yeah, but I figured you were lying. Guys do that.” 

“I don’t.” She gives me a look with one eyebrow halfway up her hairline. “Look, I’ll be down in a few minutes, okay? I just need some air.” 

“Okay, Hurry back, the bed’s getting cold.” She winks and slips back downstairs. 

A soft sigh comes from the shadows behind me. “Oh, Jackie.” 

“It’s not what it looks like. It’s complicated.” 

“That was Miss Quinzel. It seems fairly simple to me.” He has his arms folded disapprovingly. I run my hand over my face, streaking the white of my skin with sweat-soaked grime. 

“Yeah. And just to make things more complicated she’s in love with my double—and of course I told her who I really was, don’t look at me like that. “ 

“You can’t see how I’m looking at you, my face is invisible.” 

“Your monocle was judging me.” 

“ _All of me_ is judging you. You’re no cad but you have no idea how to run your personal life.” The monocle’s judging intensifies.

”Look, Joker…he doesn’t treat her well. She just wants someone to be good to her for a while.” 

“Do not try to convince me this is charity. Not when she’s the spitting image of your forlorn love.” 

He’s right. I really do have no excuse for this. This place is making me a wreck. “We both wanted a taste of something—someone—that we can’t have. Quinzel’s too good for me and Joker’s a flat-out monster. I know it’s not the healthiest thing in the world, probably isn’t even that moral, but we need it.” I don’t sound much like Gotham’s hero right now, soft-spoken and whiny about my screwed-up love life. 

Jim’s hand rests on my shoulder, cool as morning fog. “I can hardly hold myself up as a paragon of good decision making, especially when it comes to love. I’m only concerned about your well-being.”

“I’m…all right, so I’m not fine, I haven’t been fine for a while. But we needed this.” It feels like cheating, even though neither of us have done anything wrong. For lack of anything better to do with my hands I pull one of my spades out and flip it over and over in my hands. “I did tell her,” I repeat, a bit sulking over the monocle-judging. “I wouldn’t pretend to be him. I wouldn’t want to. Given who he is. I’m not even sure I could pull it off—“

_But you’re close enough._


	4. Unwanted Cosplay

“You’re still standing up too straight. Stick your thumbs in your pockets and kinda bend your arms a little.” She’s enjoying this. I’m sure getting to give her pretend puddin’ a villainous makeover is hitting the wrong buttons just right and it’s not making me feel any more comfortable about what I have to do.

Joker’s suit fits me perfectly right down to shoe size. My suit jacket’s inner pockets are filled with exploding joke teeth and blackjacks made up like rubber chickens. Up my sleeve is a joy buzzer with enough voltage to knock out Grodd. My normal weapons are under my shirt, and if things go bad fast I’ll be relying on gag gifts for self-defense.

I’m pretty sure I know why she’s going along with this, apart from making her fantasy a little more accurate. If news gets back to Joker that he’s got an imposter walking around it’s sure to pull him out of hiding. I’m hoping he’s off on a beach somewhere trying to get an off-white tan and cooking like a lobster instead.

“I’m not sure this is going to work.” 

“It’ll be fine. Owlman’s only met Joker for a little while, it ain’t like they’re BFFs. You just need to get into the spirit of the thing. Come on, give me a smile.” She taps the computer, which is showing a still of Joker cackling from atop an ice cream truck. I’ve been studying my double all morning in video and pictures, trying to tap into my psychotic freak side. Even with Harley’s guidance it’s not easy. 

“I am smiling. I can’t not smile, my face is broken.” 

Harley grabs the sides of my cheeks and pulls, forcing my warped grin to stretch even wider. “Biiig smile. You’re the clown prince of crime, you gotta look happy about it.” 

I force a smile wide as I can with my teeth bared. On the few occasions when I have the mask off I reflexively _don’t_ smile, to avoid weirding out people any more than I already do, but I suppose for Joker that’s the point.

“No, now it looks fake.” She releases me and steps back, scrutinizing me with an artist’s eye and her hand to her chin. I tug down my coattail where it’s gotten stuffed into the back of my purple slacks. “Try laughing like you got Batman hanging upside down over a shark pool.”

“I’m not the Clown Prince of Crime. I’m the Crimson Crusader. Authentic insane giggling isn’t in my skill set.” 

“You just need the right motivation.” She steps forward and puts her fingertips on my temples, staring at me with her brow furrowed into a sharp V. “You gotta focus. Close your eyes. Clear everything out of your mind. We’re gonna help you get into the right mindset. Everything gone?” 

“Yes.”

“You sure?” 

“ _Yes._ ” 

Her fingers press in harder and begin to roll small circles into my flesh. “Now, concentrate really hard on something that’s hilarious and messed up at the same time. Like the worst dead baby joke you can think of. That right there’s your motivation.”

Hilarious and messed up at once. Sounds like my life. Harley’s kneading my forehead and making goofy humming noises. I think about the man that doesn’t deserve her. The man who has everything he wants without having to work for it. If I let myself slip away that day at the chemical plant I could have had what he has…no pain, no guilt, no burden of the eternal fight against injustice. The world would be an endless playground and I’d have Harley at my side with utter devotion to me. One small step off the precipice and I’d have been Joker. I’d have had happiness and all it would cost me would be my sanity and my soul. 

How funny.

“Now that’s the laugh I’m looking for, Jackie!”

\-----

After all this criss-cross mirror-flipped chaos I’m surprised to see the Stacked Deck look like I never left home. It’s still run-down and shabby with a suspicious character and paint flaking on the sign. The windows are all blacked out. Harley stops the car and I see a few costumed punks loitering at the doorway. “Are you sure this is the right place? I mean, look at that guy.” I point at a man in striped leggings, a green helmet, and massive plastic butterfly wings waiting for his spandex-wearing buddy to finish his cigarette. “He looks like he should be paid by the hour at a kid’s birthday party.” 

“Wings guy? That’s Killer Moth. He’s legit un-legit, he’s just not very good at it.” 

“The only thing that seems killer about him is killing me with laughter.” 

“See, you’re getting into the Mr. J spirit already!” Harley’s giggling as she tows me out of the car, immediately falling into the role of floozy-on-arm like we’re starring in a gangster movie.

The two men look up and I smile real big at them. “Evening, gents. Nice night for a cook-out aint’ it?” The cigarette bobs in the red-clad one’s fingers, dripping nervous ash. 

“Evening, Joker,” says Wings Guy, taking a half-step backwards. I hold the smile. 

“Don’t be so tense, Moth. You stay like that and you’ll walk right into a bug zapper.” 

“Ha. Bug zapper. That’s real funny.”

They both step aside, clearing the way to the door as I saunter inside. When Joker says something funny, you laugh no matter what, apparently. Harley nudges me, and as I lead her inside she gives me a supportive wink. So far, so bad.

The bar’s full of costumes. A guy dressed like a musketeer is chatting up a woman in a bomber jacket and flight helmet. A wild-haired man in blue and yellow stripes plays an aggressive game of pool with a green-hooded man with a live rat on his shoulder. At a back table a meek little man with white hair helps his ventriloquist dummy drink a margarita. There’s wanted posters and signed photographs hanging on the walls along with antique ray guns and battle axes. Memorabilia from an earlier age, I suppose.

It’s easier to handle the horrified looks this time. My face is just another mask now. It’s not me they’re afraid of but the man I’m impersonating and my endorphins stay obediently at optimal levels. I slip onto a barstool and the people on either side of me quickly wiggle away. “Gimme a John Wilkes Booth, barkeep.” Harley says that’s Joker’s favorite drink. I prefer Honest Abes, myself.

Harley sits next to me, one hand around my waist and the other on my wrist. “And a triple Bloody Mary for me. I’m feelin’ in a good mood today.” She plants a sloppy kiss on my cheek and my grin turns to an expression of disgust. I shove her away, just like she told me, just like we practiced until I could do it without flinching. 

“Didn’t I tell you not to slobber all over me in public?” I admonish as she picks herself out of the tangle of barstools. She looks up at me piteously and I instead roll my eyes at the bartender. 

“Women, huh?” 

“Yeah. Women.” 

He places the drink in front of me with a little purple parasol in it, and scoots back down the bar. Not a single person steps in to defend Harley’s honor and I find myself loathing them for it. She doesn’t look at me when she gets up. Necessary, she said. Gotta keep up the act. I slurp up my drink through a curly straw.

Sure, Joker’s my mirror, but we both have the same face. We both have the same city, nearly the same nemesis, the same taste in pies, the same Harley. Is this what happens when I finally get the girl—when I go to her instead of staying as far away as possible? Maybe I made the right call by erring on the side of cowardice.

“Hey. Joker.” The voice behind me is rough like gravel under tires, and just this side of familiar. I swivel in my chair to see a bulky figure in a trenchcoat, wide hat pulled down to hide his face. The only exposed part of him is his scowl, but it’s all I ever see anyway. Who do you think you’re fooling, Owlsy?

I blow bubbles in my drink, lifting an eyebrow at him. Rehearsal’s over and a knot’s forming in my stomach. If he catches the swap he’ll either try to kill me or run, and either way I’ll lose my best shot at the phase oscillator. The idea of leaving something so powerful in my enemy’s hands is unthinkable. 

“I have a proposition for you. Drop the airhead and meet in me the alley in five minutes.” He keeps his voice low. 

“You don’t want to proposition me in public? I can put on quite a show.” I lean back pin-up style, hand on the bar, and wink at him. Owlman’s lip twitches in disgust.

“Trust me, you’ll want to hear this. It’s about your enemy. Finish your drink and meet me in the alley.

When he leaves I can see the hem of a brown cloak just barely peeking out around his feet. I turn back around, chewing on my end of the straw. “Just makin’ friends all over the place, ain’t I?” 

“Everyone loves ya, Mr. J!” Her foot rubs against my ankle reassuringly. I assume it means I’m doing a good job, but now I’ll have to fly solo.

Out of spite, I keep him waiting. When I finally emerge, picking my teeth with the end of the parasol, there’s a few dead rats lying around with their heads crushed by a heavy boot. Temper, temper. I kick one of them towards my waiting foe. “What’s the story morning glory?” 

He pushes back the hat and I feign surprise at what I already knew. “Owlsy! When did you get back into this end of the multiverse? I’ll have to throw a party. Do you like your girls in the cake before or after it’s baked?” 

“Never mind that. How would you like to get back at Batman once and for all? To break his spirit utterly?” 

I giggle and rub my hands, focusing hard on my favorite Bugs Bunny cartoons. “That does sound like fun—” Dramatic gasp. “But also like work! How are you gonna pull off something that big?” 

‘I need you to kill someone. Slowly, painfully, and gruesomely.” There’s no emotion in his voice. I don’t know if he’s creepier when he’s savoring his sadism or when carnage means nothing more to him than a few extra stains on his cape.

“Hate to break it to you, but I’ve tried that routine before. A lot. Batman doesn’t snap over a few little murders.” 

“This is a particular someone. He’s important to the Batman like no one else. Destroy him and it’ll be a blow he’ll never recover from. “

I toy with the parasol, as if considering the matter. “So why don’t you do it yourself?” 

“I have other work to do. Besides, you’re his greatest foe. The honor should be yours.” 

“Mmm…” He’s holding back. Another piece of the puzzle revealed but darn if I know how it fits into anything. My face is twisted into a ghoulish grin again and I clap my hands with glee.“Okay! Sounds like a gas, even if it doesn’t work. Who’s the lucky man?” 

“Get in the car. I’ll take you to him.”

I make a habit of twitching the entire way there, like having to sit still is a personal affront. My fingers pull the door lock up and down over and over until Owlman finally smacks my hand away. 

“Come on, Tweety Bird, what’s the punchline?” I whine. “Why this guy?”

“You don’t need to know why.” 

“A joke isn’t funny if you don’t know the ending. C’mon.” 

I poke his arm, and he nearly breaks my wrist when he yanks my hand away. I wonder what he thinks of this murderous madman who so resembles his most annoying thorn. Does he find it funny? Nah. Owlman doesn’t find anything funny. I’d lay good money that Joker gets gutted as soon as Owlman’s nefarious plan is completed, if only because I’m clearly getting under his skin. (And I am going to enjoy every moment of it, because it’s the one chance I’ll get to mess with him without actively running from him at the same time.)

“Destroy this man and I’ll explain everyone. But not until your job is finished.”

I don’t realize where we are until the gates of the sprawling estate come into view. A single light gleams in the top floor window, just barely visible through the thick trees along the sprawling estate bought by long-dead stand-up citizens with more money than humility. It makes me think of all the nasty rumors I heard as a boy about Wayne Manor being haunted by lost spirits, until I remind myself that this version is still inhabited. Owlman drops me at the back door and a ring of keys is tossed into my lap.

“Wreck the place. Kill anyone inside, but make it slow for the butler and spread him across the room. Make sure his face is still recognizable, but the rest is up to you.”

“You got it, Chirpy. One raspberry jam on toast coming up.” The pet names are as much to calm my nerves as they are to grate on his. 

“I’ll be back in four hours. Go play.”


	5. British People

Up close the house is huge. There’s at least three stories and I can’t even begin to count how many square feet. When I slip in the back door I find the kitchen is spotless, not a hint of the musty smell I expect from an old place like this. No rich idiot would deign to grease his elbows scrubbing the sinks so the serving staff must have been through here in the last day or so. 

I hope there’s been a round of layoffs lately. For their sakes.

I steal an apple from the pantry and start munching on it. (So sue me, I’m hungry.) My first two fingers rub twice against my ear, the signal barely noticeable unless you were on the lookout for it. 

“He’s gone,” murmurs Jim, fading into view by the door. 

“You hear the whole thing?” 

“Yes. I recognize the name on the gate, too. Weren’t the Wayne murders one of Cypher’s pet projects?” 

“It’s the case that got his badge taken away, too. Looks like police corruption cut the rich martyrs a break in this dimension.” I peer out the door. The dining room’s empty, and the table alone is longer than my last apartment. Rich people have a very weird idea of how to spend their money. “Search the place. See if you can find anything that would tie Pennyworth or the Waynes to Owlman.”

“Batman, surely?” 

“Both. For some reason Owlman doesn’t want to even watch Joker go to work on Pennyworth and Owlman defines control freak. Something’s fishy here.” 

Jim slips away, and I quietly mount the stairs. With how high the ceilings are you could probably hear an ant walking through here, and I’m grateful for the lush rugs. The place is well-attended by a powerful feather duster but, strangely, doesn’t seem very lived in. The rooms are perfectly furnished but I’d bet that most of the armchairs haven’t seen a single butt in years. Wayne Manor looks like a house-sized set piece, all flair and no affection, like a wedding cake in a bake shop window.

There’s soft woodwind music coming from upstairs and I trace it through the dark, curvy hallways until I reach a half-open door. Parlor, from what little I can see of it. Two fingers at my left ear make Jim vanish and I slick my hair back as I prep my evil grin. Ideally I can interrogate him without blowing my cover, find out what Owlman wants him dead for and then…well, when have I ever had a plan without a step made of question marks?

“Evening, geezer.” I enter stage left, clutching my lapel. To his credit the old guy barely flinches. He’s got a tiny mustache, a fine suit, perfect posture even when Gotham’s premiere psychopath steps into the room. If I was asked to describe the platonic ideal of a butler, it’d be this guy. “May I help you, sir?” he asks, in the world’s politest British accent. I’d like him if I didn’t need to be interrogating him through bluffs I can’t back up. 

“Oh, you betcha, Jeeves.” My hand slides into my jacket pocket. “I just want us to have a nice friendly—“

I’m on my butt before I even see him move. My hand makes a futile grasp for his ankle but he’s not running, he’s just getting into position for the next blow. I roll out of the way and grapple with his legs, yanking him down onto the floor with me before he lands a hard kick at my sternum. A darn butler shouldn’t be so good, even when I’m pulling my punches to keep from snapping his old bones. 

Out of reflex I go for my stun gun—perfectly calibrated by trained professionals to protect senior citizens and those with heart conditions from unwanted fatalities—and instead the suit yields up a packet of something purple and slightly squishy. His foot slams into my hand, breaking the seal on the packet, and compressed goo explodes upward to clamp his legs together in a sticky embrace. The goo reeks of sugar and artificial flavoring, like cheap candy. 

Laffy Taffy. Of –frigging-course. When he topples I flip him over and pin his hands behind his back. “You are one cranky old man,” I pant, cuffing him with a set of purple furry handcuffs that I don’t want to think too hard about. 

“One cannot blame me for trying.” He’s still cool as a cucumber as I lever him back into his easy chair.

Yeah? Watch me. You’re Alfred Pennyworth, right? The rich idiot’s nanny?” Because right now I’m worried I just captured the bodyguard. I shake my hand, peeling off residual shreds of combat candy.

“I am, sir. And who might you be?” 

“You been living under a rock? You don’t know the Joker, Gotham’s premiere psychopath?” 

“I do indeed, sir. We’ve met on several occasions, including an incident where I dueled him into submission with a fireplace poker. Despite his subpar skills at comedy, he is quite good at the pratfall. You, on the other hand, both have significant combat training and the consideration to use blows that do not risk crippling me. I would ask again: who are you?”

Well, shoot. I go from Joker slouch to depressed Red Hood slump. “Gimme a break, I’ve only been at this a few days.” 

“If it is any consolation, the resemblance is remarkable. If I didn’t have such close familiarity with his combat technique I would have been entirely taken in.” 

No matter what I do he keeps that calm, tolerant, polite tone. “My name’s Red Hood. I look like the Joker because…well, I am him. In another dimension.” Pennyworth nods thoughtfully. It worries me that everyone thinks that explanation is perfectly reasonable. 

“Would you have any connection to Owlman?” 

“Yeah, he’s Joker to my Batman, I guess you could say. I’m hoping he’s less perceptive than you are, or I’m in a lot of hot water.” 

“As I said, it is a striking resemblance.” He wiggles slightly against the taffy. The man is actually too darn polite to ask me to unbind him. What are British people even made of?

“What about your connection to Batman?” I ask, perching on the end table next to his record player.

“As a citizen of Gotham City I am internally grateful to Batman for his efforts against injustice and I am sure he cares for me as he would any civilian. But we have no personal ties. I am only a butler.” 

“What about your boss?” 

“None that I’m aware of. Are you sure you have the right address?”

“Owlman wants Joker to go after Alfred Pennyworth specifically. Do you maybe have a son? Younger brother? Spouse?”

“I have no children, I have never married, and my brother has even fewer ties to Gotham or Batman. I cannot think what Owlman would want with me.”

I pace. If the old man’s holding back it’s impossible to tell behind the infuriating professionalism. Mentioning Batman made him even more stoic than he was before. “Look, something about you’s gotta relate back to Batman. Owlman sent me—The Joker, I mean—specifically to kill you, as brutally as possible.”

“Goodness. I’m grateful you spared me.” If he doesn’t react to _something_ I’m going to slap him.

“It’s part of his revenge against Batman. You or your counterpart in my world, must have some connection to him that I’m missing. If you know anything, you need to tell me now so I can figure out what he’s planning.

“I’m sorry. I cannot help you.” The shadows by the window grow deeper and I see the briefest flicker of Jim’s spectral form, pointing to the door. I raise one finger and head for the door. “Hold on, I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” 

Alfred shifts back into the chair, legs twitching in the candy. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jim’s waiting just out of view. I tilt my head questioningly and he guides me through the house’s twisting corridors until the walls muffle our voices. “You’ve found something?” 

“Something, yes. But I’m not sure where it fits into the grander scheme.” 

The room he leads me to looks like the sort of place where a satisfied millionaire might enjoy a glass of wine while reading something depressing and Russian. There’s a large fireplace installed in one wall and an LCD TV taking up most of another. Over the hearth is a massive painting of a man and a woman with warm smiles. 

“Here,” says Jim, guiding me to the mantelpiece. It’s lined with photographs in fancy frames, from Victorian daguerreotype pictures up through digital glossies. Crowded onto one end are monochrome group shots, probably the Waynes of past generations, but the collection is predominated by the couple in the painting. Some feature them grinning in front of various exotic landscapes, and one is clearly their wedding. In one of the sepia-tinged pictures both smiles are directly purely at the red-faced sleeping bundle in the woman’s arms. Timeskip a few years to the next photo and they’re seated with a boy squeezed into a suit no child should have to endure, in front of a bright Christmas tree. Standing behind them is a man with a very familiar, if darker, mustache. 

“Thomas, Martha, Bruce, and the loyal butler,” I muse. “Looks like they got off easier in this world.”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” A cold, spectral glove presses another framed photograph into my hand. “What strikes you about it?” The picture is of the same room, possibly the same furniture, with what’s possibly the same Christmas tree. Pennyworth is even holding an identical stiff stance behind the two figures on the couch. The only changes are the participants on the couch. One’s a dark-haired young man, maybe about thirteen or fourteen. He doesn’t seem to bear a close resemblance to the man beside him and a lack of baby pictures indicate the lad wasn’t raised in this house as the Waynes were. The smile on the man beside him is forced and his body—oddly muscular, for a rich idiot—is tense, probably uncomfortable with formal photographs. Thomas and Martha are both missing.

I notice all of this in retrospect. What grabs me first is the older man’s face. That face, I’d know in any picture in any world. I grab the photo of the three Waynes and head back toward Pennyworth. “Watch my back. I think I’ve just figured this whole thing out.”

The butler’s where I left him. He managed to turn the record player back on with his foot, but it's not one of the scant five orchestral scores that I can identify by ear. R'as al Ghul did not get me as cultured as he would have liked. “Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, turning the music back off again.

“Might just.” I hold up the family photo. “Who’s this?”

“That would be the late Thomas and Martha Wayne, with their son Bruce Wayne. I believe he is eight years old in that picture. I, of course, am the one in the back.” 

“What happened to them? Why aren’t there any more pictures of them after this one?”

It’s the barest twitch, an infinitesimal softening of his features and voice so tiny most would miss it. This isn’t a man who’s in it for the money. “They were murdered two years after this was taken, returning from taking their son to the movies.”

“Were you there?”

“No.”

“And Bruce?” 

“Found by the police, still with their bodies. I was the only caretaker he had left, so I became his guardian.” He’s not faking this. If he was he wouldn’t be trying so hard to keep his voice still. I put the picture behind my back and hold up the other one. “Just to keep us on the same page, is this Bruce Wayne now?” 

“That picture is approximately five years old, but yes, that is what he looks like now.”

I set both pictures up on the end table, facing Pennyworth. This is a shot in the dark but I know I’m close. Things here are either the same or the opposite, good or evil, there’s no Jackie living out a boring life.

“In my world they tell the story a little differently. When the Waynes went out to the movies the butler went with them. After they were shot the kid and the butler vanished off the face of the Earth. The whole thing was a cold case for decades, all sorts of crazy rumors running around – the butler did it, the butler was framed, the mob did it, the aliens did it. Last year a buddy of mine managed to crack open a few leads—turns out Wayne the elder was doing a side business in stitching up gangsters and hit men. Problem was, another gang didn’t like his allegiances and they were the ones who had pull with the police. The man who shot the Wayne was an undercover cop named Joseph Chill, taking out a hit because Thomas wouldn’t roll on his crime buddies. Martha was collateral, but Gotham cops aren’t much fussed about that.”

There’s a tightness to Pennyworths’ features. “And the child?” he asks quietly. 

“That’s where the conspiracy theories come in. Popular theory’s still that the butler took the kid and ran. We know Pennyworth he had criminal ties and he could disappear if he wanted to. But why take the bitty Brucie with him? Why not save himself and let Chill shoot the kid too?”

Alfred tilts his head, and I can see the penny sliding through the gears in his head. He knows where I’m going with this. He knows the answer. But he won’t drop it until I can prove I know his secret.

“A couple of decades later Gotham gets another problem. For all Gotham knew the man erupted full formed from the clotted garbage and sludge that collects on the banks of the river, put on a bird suit, gets a few buddies together, and went off to take over most of the world. No one’s ever been able to track down his past from before he came here, and we were too busy stopping him to look that closely. Now, I’m not going a bother you with the long story of what he did and what we did and how the whole mess turned out, but here’s the big punchline. When we finally got that mask off him, this was the face underneath.”

And I drop Bruce Wayne’s picture into his lap. The old man looks down, lips pressed tightly together. “You are insinuated that the double of my employer is Owlman?” he asks, still keeping up the dumb act. Come on, Pennyworth, you know neither of this is buying it. “How unfortunate. I assure you, Mr. Hood. Master Bruce is no villain.” 

“Oh, I buy it. But let’s talk about you for a minute. You’re smart, you’re perceptive, and the way you fight says you’re trained way better than a butler needs to be. You’re resourceful and you keep your head in a bad situation.” I walk around behind him and yank on the chain of the handcuffs. The open rings pop right off Pennyworth’s wrists.

“You’re too kind.” 

“Now, let’s assume my Pennyworth’s mostly about the same way. Maybe grimier but not a total monster. What happens when that guy gets his little ward caught in a shootout with the cops? You can’t call the cops on the cops, and you’re witnesses to a murder. What would you do, if you were your double? If you’d gotten attached to the little brat while you were casing their mansion for a heist?”

Pennyworth’s fingers are digging into the putty. “I would protect him.” 

“Even if it meant fleeing the country and hiding in some backwater rathole until he’s old enough to handle himself in Gotham again? Even if it meant you’d risk your own freedom to break him out of jail when he’d just tried to take over one world and blow up another?” 

“Of course.” 

“Right. Because you’re not just smart, you’re loyal even when it’s not the sanest thing for you to do. I’ve been filling your head with just how dangerous this is for you and you’re still pretending you don’t get it, because for you there’s things more important than that. Because even with a knife at your throat you won’t admit Bruce Wayne is Batman.”

Pennyworth is silent. I swear if he keeps up the idiot routine I’m going to smack him. This entire universe is insane but it’s insane with rules on it. Things are right or they’re reversed but never just a few inches off center.

“When I said no child, I meant it only biologically,” the old man murmurs. His posture sinks, the steel flowing out of his bones with a long breath. “He is like a son to me. I would do anything for him. I ask you, not for myself but for him, that you will not reveal what you know. It would destroy him.”

“My lips are sealed.” 

“As are mine, withered as they may be.” Apparently Jim has been standing next to me the entire time, waiting for the proper dramatic moment to reveal himself. I thought it felt drafty in here. He lifts his hat and bows to Pennyworth, cape flaring out behind him. “Our world owes Batman a nigh-unrepayable debt. We will not violate your trust.”

“I…appreciate that.” It’s mildly gratifying to finally see Pennyworth surprised. 

Jim spins his cane. “Owlman is a monster beyond par but he’s also extremely thorough. He would not leave this task in the hands of a disgusting madman unless there was something that made the deed unpalatable for him. Even in his cold lust for vengeance he cannot bring himself to murder someone with your face. If such sentiment is present even in a callous heart, how great must your master’s love be for you? Your death would be the act that would, in Owlman’s opinion, finally break him.”

“I am not sure whether to consider that an honor or a condemnation.”

I open up Joker’s switchblade and kneel to begin cutting away the taffy. “Right now, let’s call it my ticket back to the phase oscillator.”

***

Batman keeps a few vials of blood in his basement, which despite their scientific applications is kind of weird. When Owlman shows up at the house I’ve got it spattered on my shoes and streaked along my gloves. His imagination should do the rest. “I gotta say, Owlman. You might have a rhino’s sense of humor but you know how to show a guy a good time.” 

He grunts, averting his eyes from me as he leads me back to the car. Seeing him angry is normal, seeing him uncomfortable is super weird. “You finished the job?” 

“He’s resting in pieces with a great big smile on his face.”

“Good.”

He doesn’t ask to see the finished piece, which further confirms my hunch. I casually adjust my acid squirting carnation. Alfred’s hidden one of Batman’s tracking devices underneath it. We still can’t get in contact with him, he’s off in space right now (sure, why not), but the moment he warps back he’ll know how to find me. Jim’s staying behind in case Owlman sends goons to check my work and his dimensional phasing abilities will get Batman to me far quicker than any souped-up hot rod. Meanwhile, I’m alone in a car with a man who can kill me before I know I’m dead. Business as usual. 

“There’s an outfit in the back seat. I want you to put it on,” says Owlman as we drive off down the dreary road back towards the city. 

I hold up my hands in mock panic. “Whoa, whoa, Owlsy. You said you’d tell me the plan now and I’m not playing dress-up with you until I know if I should be getting paid for it.” In the rear view mirror I can see a large shopping bag. He makes a harsh noise with his tongue before he jerking his head at the back seat.

“Get dressed, clown.”

I clamber into the back seat, making sure to get my feet in his face as I pass.

“There’s a man, a self-styled crimefighter, who’s been a thorn in my side for some time, I hate him even more than Batman hates you. He ruined everything I worked for in my world and turned it into a chaotic, uncontrolled mess of a cesspit.” 

“That’s quite a lot of hate.”

“More than you can imagine. That’s why I’m going to destroy him.” 

Inside the bag is my old costume. Not exactly mine, that’s in shreds in an alleyway, but almost identical to the original. Another piece clicks into place. “He’s hiding somewhere in this city, lost and friendless. No one in Gotham will give him sanctuary, not to a man who’s wearing your face. When Batman sees what you’ve done he’s going to hunt you down. He’s going to break his one rule for the man who murdered his father.” 

“But it won’t be me, will it?” I feel something hard under the bag and run my fingers down its curve. I know its little scars and bumps without having to look. 

“No. You’re going to be Red Hood. I’ll put you through to a world where people love and trust that costume, that face, and you’re going to drive his reputation into the mud. Then, when Batman’s finished his work I’ll bring you back to show what a mistake he made. He’ll see that he’s betrayed his deepest principles to execute a helpless ally, the greatest hero my world’s ever seen and he’s going to _shatter_.”

The last word is sharp and quick, like a knife between the ribs.

I slip the helmet on, feel it click into position around my collar. The new suit lacks all my usual gear and hidden pockets, and I feel bare without the throwing knives I couldn't steal out of Joker’s suit. 

“That’s…that’s some plan, Owlsy.” It’s all I can do to keep my voice steady and the helmet blessedly hides the horror on my face. I think about him laying there in his cell, still as stone, nothing moving but his brain and nothing to do but think up new ways to hate me. After all this time Owlman can still terrify the pants off me.

We pull to a stop at a storage depot near the river. I recognize it, barely. Actually I think we blew it up a few months ago. Owlman hauls me out of the back seat and drags me out like a wayward child, cape flowing behind me. I don’t have a chance to grab my weaponry or anything else hidden in Joker’s suit, he’s left me nothing but my running shoes and my wits. It’s like our first date all over again. I babble jokes and mocking praise to keep up the act as we navigate the maze of shipping containers, anything to keep my mouth running so my brain won’t have to.

There’s a nice crop of thugs waiting for me inside the depot. Nobody I recognize save for that pretty blonde girl in the red and black suit, who winks and waves to me as I enter. This is why I picked a mask that hides my eyes. With my face exposed I couldn’t let my gaze linger on her, or show any sign of concern. 

“This is your crew. They’re armed, and I’ll be sending over several crates of explosives and Smilex to bolster your efforts.”

“So what if this Hood guy gets through to Batman before Batman takes him apart? That no-kill role’s a hard one to break,” I ask, stalling while I pace the room. Talk, talk, but I need the payoff. I need the phase oscillator.

“It doesn’t matter. He’ll have been ready to kill and to a moralizer like him it’s as bad as doing it. If it doesn’t work I’ll kill the Hood myself.” One of the thugs brings him a lockbox and my heart clenches as he opens it, revealing the sharp eyes and flared barrel of the phase oscillator’s muzzle. He’s turned the screen away from me as he punches in our address and I remember that night in the factory where my hesitation nearly cost the life of one world and the freedom of another. I can’t fail Gotham again.

The portal flares open. The thugs approach, nervous but obedient. Harley looks excited. I adjust my helmet and take a deep breath. 

“Go,” says my enemy. Home’s so close. I can practically taste the air of Gotham. I could just walk over like he wants me to, leave this horrible place behind and forget that it ever existed without letting him knock me down one last time. 

“Nah, I’m good.”

My elbow snaps out, catching Owlman in the face. I sink my fingers into the handle of the phase oscillator during the single moment that his fingers go slack, and then make a mad dash for the portal. Let him follow me and I’ll slam the door behind us, I’ll save this world like Batman saved mine. I owe it to them. A bomb explodes at my feet and I backpedal, skewing off to the right. He’s screaming in that tone I love, the tone that says something in the perfect plan has gone horribly wrong. Guns crack behind me and it’s only a few feet more, I’m almost to the place where things make sense, where I know which way is up...

An Owlarang strikes my leg. I slide to the side, fighting the pain for one more step as the oscillator hums in my arms. There’s a sudden explosion against my fingertips, a sputter of cut wiring. The world explodes like a shattered mirror, and I hear someone screaming “Red—"


	6. The Laughing Man

“--silk hanging from the walls, pile of gold the height of my shoulder, harem maidens hanging on my every word. Damn good dream to be in.” My feet are unsteady on the wooden boards of my cabin, still working their way into my stiff boots.

“I got a good reason for waking you up, Cap’n J.”

“It had better be, Miss Quinn. It’s cold as a witch’s tit up here and I’ve got an Arab palace to get back to.” I yank my coat on as I come back up on deck, tugging down the lace on my shirt cuffs. Man can’t catch a breath’s worth of sleep without some idiot causing a fuss. I’m contemplating tossing her overboard, letting her hang by a rope until her lungs are half-water and her skin’s cut to ribbons from the barnacles under the ship.

Of course then I’d have to break in a new first mate, and this one’s got charms worth considering. Decisions, decisions.

Quinn leaps to the shrouds and hangs by one hand with her bright hair tumbling down her shoulders. She points a silent finger at the horizon and bounces a smile back at me. Silhouetted against the morning sun is Captain Leatherwings’ ship, stark black like dead trees in a bonfire. Suddenly the cold doesn’t matter, and neither does Quinn. Nothing matters now that I’ve got him in my sights.

I turn and find the crew waiting on the deck below. They’re tensed, waiting for what they know I’ll say. My grin spreads my face wide, the half-seen sun sharpening the edges of my pointed chin and slashed cheeks.

“Prepare for combat. No quarter, we ram our way on it and hit the decks before he can turn tail. Today we burn that sorry wreck to the last plank and cloth scrap, and we send his skinned corpse down to see Poseidon!”

“Aye, sir!” With one loud cheer my people scatter across the decks. They know their business Under Nygma’s steady hand the _Harlequinade_ turns, sails flaring to catch the chill wind sweeping in from the north. It’ll take more than cannonade to take down the _Flying Fox_ , the man’s got a knack for escaping certain death without the decency of telling me how he does it. I want to see the moment the light goes out of his eyes and be sure that the deed’s done for good. After that we can laugh it up and drink and fuck to our hearts content but I want to be doing it while Leatherwing’s head watches us from a pike. 

“Any prisoners, Captain?” Quinn thinks she’s funny. 

I giggle as Crane passes me my sword, my little shriek of joy piercing through the chatter of the crew and the whistling of the morning wind about the ears he cut into points. “We slaughter them all, Miss Quinn. Hand to hand, until the decks run--”


	7. Warai Kitsune

“--a little faster, you big black bug! Put in some effort!”

Koumari Yashi charges across the stone tiles of the rooftops beneath our feet, hot on my fluffy red tail. I laugh a high yip as I flee towards the river. You kill ten or twenty people in the middle of the busiest street in Osaka and suddenly everyone wants to put a sharp object in your head. It’s not like the city couldn’t spare the bodies.

He’s so serious, this “bat demon” who supposedly guards Osaka’s streets with his pet army of shinobi. Such a serious man with a serious mask. I just had to take an interest in him. I leap down to the streets as screaming people push each other in their hurry to flee the city’s biggest celebrity. He lands beside me, nearly crushing a poor man selling fish from a pushcart.

“Warai Kitsune! Your reign of terror ends here!” He swings his sword at me and I dodge as I race through the crowded streets, shoving down dull-eyed children and carts as blockades for the dark-clad man who I can’t seem to shake. I make it past the row of shops before a thrown rope trips me up and sends me tail over nose to the ground. With a yelp, I tumble onto the table of some old men having their morning tea, hot liquid splashing flares of pain against my skin. The fox mask on the side of my face makes a little crunch noise as the edge fractures off. He tries to grab me and I grab him instead, towing him down with me to roll in the tea-scented mud.

What is the deal with this guy? He’s caught someone’s blessing, I won’t believe a mere human can challenge a kitsune’s power this overtly. I mean, he didn’t get this close last time, and no one's ever made it closer. He barely saw me before I managed to run off into the crowd and transformed from that demon Warai Kitsune into that lovable kabuki actor Izuna Ichibiri, just another terrified citizen screaming for a savior to deliver them from this unstoppable monster. Next time I’ll be more creative with my methods; a bit less public and a lot more personal. It’ll be a pretty little _renga_ we can write together for this sooty city he loves so much.

He goes for my throat, I go for his groin. My head rings as he slaps it back against the table. When the sword comes down again I catch it with one hand, reveling in his look of confusion at my little magic trick. The blade digs into my palm and what’s it to me? The serious man with the serious mask has my full giggling attention.

“Is this really your best, Koumari Yashi? I heard--”


	8. Red

“--you’ve been having some bat problems.”

“Red-Maned Warrior, She-Who-Laughs-Loudest, Champion of the Hyena Women. We of the Elephant Tribe are honored by your presence in our humble village.” There’s something ridiculous about watching a guy twice my size with ears the size of my torso genuflect until his trunk touches the dry savanna grass at his massive feet, thick hands pressed flat against each other in front of his chest. The Elephants have a serious courtesy problem.

“Just call me Red. It saves time.” I scratch at the nape of my neck, where the red paint we make from crushed clay and pure water is beginning to flake at the point where skin meets hair. It accentuates the places on my face where fur will never grow again, calls attention to them rather than hiding them. By my paint my warriors know who to rally around, and my enemy who it is that stands up against him. The mutilation he meant to shame me with has become my pride.

“Dark-Wings-on-Moonlight and his black flock have been terrorizing my people for many moons, She-Who-Laughs-Loudest. We have no more tribute to give him, and he takes more than we can stand. If we do not pay him he will take even more. We will give you all we have if you will but save our children from this scourge.” He’s sweating hard, and it reeks of fear. I hate that smell. It means something’s gone wrong.

I rest a firm hand on his what part of his arm I can reach, just below a beaded bracelet obviously made with care and love. “Don’t worry about the gifts. All I want is for your children to be able to sleep in peace.” And have Dark-Wings’ ears dried out and hanging as trophies from my belt, but while I’m at it I’d also like steak dinners for the rest of my life. Baby steps.

One of my paws kicks against the dirt as I cast my eyes upward. It’s nearly dusk. Dark-Wings always hits at night, when he can see and we can’t, but I know his scent as well as I know my own. I’m the one he can’t sneak up on. “When’s he coming next?”

“Tomorrow night, great huntress.”

“Good. I’ll keep my people by the river. Once he’s low enough that we can get our spears on him we’ll have a shot at getting them out of the sky and down to our level. If we can pick off enough of his troops he’ll retreat.” 

The Elephant's watery eyes widen. “You can make him leave? Just like that?”

I nod. The wind’s picking up, warping the shapes of the wispy clouds passing overhead and making my ears prick up out of instinct. They think he's a demon, a vengeful god. I know he's just a bat who bleeds like the rest of us, and without the fear he brings he is nothing. “Not forever but we can push him back, into the territories he thinks are more secure. He’ll never--”


	9. The Joker

“-- start with the head. The victim gets fuzzy, you can't feel the next-”

Ow, and there go the fingers. A beat for comedic effect and I shrug, calm as anything as my head rings worse than usual. My aching hand smears greasepaint across the police interrogation room table that he introduced to my face before he moved on to smaller targets. “See?”

Ah, Batsy. You’re exactly what I thought you’d be. So stodgy, so formulaic. You’re just the tiniest bit outside the ordinary and that scares the hell out of everyone but you’ve still got that streak of justice. They think they understand you and that gives them a little comfort. Me, they can’t understand, and it terrifies them.

“You wanted me. Here I am.” Ooh, he’s even using the scary voice. Dark and raspy like he’s talking through sandpaper. Maybe I should indulge him and wet myself a little.

“I wanted to see what you'd do.” I lean in, like we’re having a nice chat. “And you didn't disappoint. You let five people die.” Batman’s getting all up in my face and I can see his eyes dark under the mask, I can see how fake the mask looks, how it digs holes and puffs up the skin around the edges of his cheeks. You shine the light on Batman and he’s just a man in a fetish suit. Shine the light on my pretty face and I just get worse. Aren’t we a peachy pair.

“Then you let Dent take your place. Even to a guy like me that's cold.” I smack my lips. My tongue’s wandering again, licking my smile dry. Too bad I didn’t pack an extra lipstick to freshen up before my date.

“Where’s Dent?” Single-minded there. I drag the subject back to more interesting matters.

“Those mob fools want you dead so they can get back to the way things were.” My fingers flutter delicately in the air, dismissive. I shift and lean forward, voice softer. Just our little secret because everyone else is too stupid to understand it. “But I know the truth: there’s no going back. You’ve changed things. Forever.”

His head tilts, confusion taking away some of the gravel. “Then why do you want to kill me?”

That’s it. I’m done. I’m gone. I’m laughing so hard I can barely see the way his frown deepens and that only makes it worse. He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. Tears are starting to well up in my eyes (glad I didn’t add mascara to the ensemble) before I finally get my breath back enough to talk. 

“I--I don’t wanna kill you,” I say, still giggling. "What would I do without you? Go back to ripping off mob dealers?” I roll my eyes, settling back into my chair. Go back to boredom, a world where people do all their work for money or petty idealism without spicing it up with costumes and flamboyance? “No. No. No, you...complete--”


	10. Jack the Ripper

“--the scene with a big, big smile, all pretty like a crescent moon. Ah, aren’t you much prettier like this?”

The bitch deserved it. She didn’t deserve it any more than anyone else, of course, but she definitely deserved it. She wasn’t smiling wide enough. I yank my knife out of her face and go to work lower down, cuttin’ out the organs like a surgeon. I ain’t no doctor, but I’ve studied books. I know how to take out a woman’s bits. I set out my jars and start poppin’ ‘em in as she watches me with them dark eyes and a big grin.

She’d appreciate it, if she knew. No one cares about a common whore when she’s alive but now I’ve made her famous. She’ll be in all the papers come tomorrow morning and men’ll be clamoring to get a good look at her insides. I admire my hands for a moment, the way the blood runs rivers over the white scars, her and me merging together into a beautiful painting. Gorgeous. Piss-ugly outside but ain’t she gorgeous inside.

This is my fifth girl now. Doesn’t have to be a girl, but girls get the attention. More of a scandal that way. The newsboys can’t get enough of me, the politicians won’t stop talking about me. I’m the most famous man in town, they should be giving me audiences with the damn Queen herself, but instead I just slip quiet as mice through the diseased, howling mass that is coagulated humanity going about its daily dull business until I find a good night to go out on the town.

Something’s making noise on the cobblestones overhead. I twist around, the knife still hanging from my fingers, and a pair of boots come slamming into my face. I fall back into her lap and her blood soaks into my hair as I taste my own blood on my split lips. I spit, the red smeared across my grinning face.

It’s the guy from the papers, the supposed monster who’s been terrifying the local criminal populace. There’s been sketches of him and wild stories but no one’s gotten a proper look at his face. I thought he was a myth until I say what he did to Big Waylon, then I started sharpening up my own knives…was only a matter of time until we finally found the same street corner.

“So you’re the bat, huh? I’ve seen you on--“


	11. The Jokester

“—toast. And a stack of pancakes with blueberry compote. And that gratuitous grapefruit you see in cereal ads that no one ever actually eats.”

“Breakfast later. Are you dressed yet?”

“One sec.” I carefully pin the flower to my chest and check that my rubber chicken blackjack’s firmly attached to my belt. Sometimes I wish I’d run with a different theme. I could be a cat, or maybe a lizard, or get lazy with a ragged brown suit and belts strapped on every which-way. It’d save a lot of time on makeup and acid mixers stuffed down my shirt.

Or I could just not be in a line of work that involves rolling out of bed at three in the morning, slapping white facepaint on top of my stubble, and fighting crazy people _pro bono._. I could do that too.

“What’s our assignment, morning glory?”

“I’m splitting us up. Harlequin’s made a bomb threat on the Nora Fries Medical Clinic and I need you to find out what his real scheme is. I think it has something to do with the incident last week at Thomas Elliot’s office.”

“Great, set me up with my crazy ex. I see how it is.”

“I’ll be taking on the Robin gang on the north side.”

“You know, me and Harland were due for a chat anyway. Gotta clear the air on a few things.” I can cope with Greyson but Cain just gives me the creeps. All those stitch marks on her mouth, those just aren’t right. Plus punching kids probably doesn’t line up well on my karma meter.

Out of the corner of my eye I see him pull up the cowl and begin to stalk away down the narrow catwalk across the chasms of his cave. My hand snaps out and grabs his dark cape, dragging him back over. “Forgetting something, World’s Greatest Detective? I need my motivational spark here.”

There’s a moment as he looks down me with dark eyes set in kohl-painted sockets, gives me that gaze that only I can raise out of him. He grabs me with the strength he used to pull me back up onto the catwalk when my feet were dangling above the chemical vat, to pull me out of my life’s downward spiral into something more important, and he kisses me hard enough to cause small-scale earthquakes. It sends a shock from my green wig to my toes that lingers after he drops me and swings himself into the Batmobile’s front seat.

“Be careful,” he growls, like an order, like a benediction. I wink back at him as I grab up my motorcycle helmet, sliding onto my custom-painted Clowncycle.

“Hey, I can handle my clown shoes. You just worry about that pretty black--"


	12. Game Over for Owlman (Again)

“—Hood!”

I laugh and I laugh and oh god, I can see the truth and it is hilarious and it is terrible. In every incarnation we are bound together. I cause them, or they cause me, or we orbit each other like destined lovers. The laughter echoes in my head so loudly that I can’t think of anything else but how ridiculous it all is. Existence is ridiculous. When the sound stops I marvel at its absence, and only after a few moments realize there’s a gloved thumb pressing down on my windpipe to cut off my voice. “Disgusting freak…you’re like a virus, infecting everything you touch.” The pressure lets off just when the spots begin to bloom over my field of vision. 

He—which is he? Or it he?—is not looking too pleased. But Batsy’s never happy to see me. “You and me,” I rasp, not fighting back. My body feels all tingly. “You and me, everywhere. Every universe. I saw it. Every single time.” Hard to see anything behind those yellow lenses but I can see the snarling twitch of his lips. A little closer, Thomas, just a few inches, can’t you spare a kiss for your Martha?

The twitch becomes a cruel smile. If it were a touch wider I’d see the fangs the noble boy picked up in Romania. “Then let’s make this universe the exception.” He’s got his knife up. Going to cut me another smile but I’ve already got one so why does he think another will do any good, ever hear what the definition of insanity is? The moment before he cuts me a shadow explodes out of the floor with cold hands tight around my limp body, swinging me off the floor to dangle in midair. 

The demon clutches at me, and its face is pressed to cool, smooth air rather than reeking fur. The voice in my ear lacks a Bat-Man’s shrillness. “Wake up, Jackie, for the love of God!” it hisses and I wonder who Jackie is supposed to be. The Owl scurries about with his minions on the ground as we swoop about, just out of their reach. This is getting really goofy now. 

“Shake the haze from your mind, we haven’t much time!”

The shadow creature flashes lightning-white and we suddenly plunge to the floor. I sprawl back while it writhes, bound up in some strange wire with weights on both ends. I can see its face now, a hideous pate like a corpse hung from the gibbet and left out too long in the sun. It gnashes its worn teeth at Leatherwings as he looms over the pair of us. “You’ll not have him!” the apparition cries out.

“Gentleman Ghost. I hope you’re a fan of my Nth metal bolas. It doesn’t matter how thin the wire is, you still can’t phase your way through them.” He gives the pale thing a hard kick. Something round and red rolls past me but I’m too busy being a Tickle-Me-Elmo ragdoll to investigate it any further. “But if you’re here,” Batwoman muses, her voice harsh and rasping, “that means the phase oscillator isn’t the only way between our worlds.” 

The spectre writhes in rage as Batman circles it, then again approaches me. Ho-hum, back to the old state pen again. Gee, the caped clod’s actually managed to smile for once. He bends over and his breath is worse than usual, maybe all those child dental care campaigns he did were just so much hypocrisy. Hilarious.

“Which means once I’m done with making you scream, _freak_ , I’m going to scatter your organs to the four corners of Gotham. And then I’m going to find you in the next universe over and do it again, and again, until there’s no one left in the multiverse who even remembers your hideous face.” His blade descends and I’m grinning to welcome it, pain from him as good as a lover’s embrace, and I laugh in the face of whatever that thing’s going to do to me.

Then a boxing glove comes out of nowhere and smacks him in the back of the head. 

“Dontcha know it’s rude to litter?”

That stupid girl ruins everything. Batman staggers as Harley charges toward him, hammer upraised. Ruining the perfect punchline. The pale thing wiggles and shouts at me while the red thing and brown thing dance about each other, trading blows and thrown comedic objects. My head is buzzing like it’s full of bees and soon it’ll swell up and pop and then out go all the bees. The mes. The me-bees. Bzzzzzzz.

“Red Hood! Catch!” 

The same voice, only different, only the same. My arm, operating on trained instinct that my upper brain can’t handle, snaps up and snags a swirling scarlet piece of metal out of the air. The shape is familiar to me, flat at one end and bell-curving upward until it comes to a point. It’s a metal playing card pip painted red with a scratch on one side. A single spade, the Ace of Spades, high card, lucky card, death card.

I’m a fixed point again. 

My knife raises and slices down through the gossamer Nth metal thread, letting Jim slip back into shadows. I grab my helmet and snap it down onto my shoulders, rolling onto my feet with my cape flaring behind me.

“Welcome to the action, Batman!” 

Owlman screams in rage as his hired hands begin to back away. The Caped Crusader, savior of two Gothams, swings down from the rafters like an avenging angel. His cape is a vivid, brilliant blue to Owlman’s brown and his eyes lack the slitted yellow lenses that make my nemesis look even more horrific. When he tosses off a quick wave it feels genuine, like the guy’s actually happy that I’m here to help him save the day.

“Welcome back, Red Hood!” he calls out, and shoulder to shoulder we charge the horde.

The Owl and the Bat are brutal but they move in perfect symmetry. I am the butterfly before the hurricane, the chaos element, and every moment of attention I steal from Owlman is an opening for Batman’s carefully chosen blows. In brief flashes I see the battle waging around us. Harley Quinn jumps and tumbles, laughing at the joy of brutality. Jim strafes from the air, picking off the goons with his spectral pistols. Owlman ducks and weaves, and at the last moment tries to run. Two pairs of fists take him down

“Good…good save there.” I stagger and fall to my knees beside my nemesis. My throat is raw from laughing and my body aching from Batman’s not broken a sweat, because he’s a jerk like that.

“Sorry I’m late. I had to help rescue a planet of sentient machines from a world-consuming chaos god.” 

“Oh. That was nice of you.” Head’s still spinning. I press my hands to the sides of my helmet and try to focus on staring at my thighs. Jim’s hand rests on my shoulder, grounding me with a cooolness that goes right through the fabric of my suit. 

“Gentleman Ghost brought me up to speed on your situation once I made it back to Earth. Your plan was risky, but it stalled Owlman long enough for me to get the Batplane over to your location once I’d returned to the Batcave.”

I nod along, and then stop because the jerking motions is making my stomach try to foment a rebellion against me. He has a plane. Of _course_ he has a plane. And a cave to put the plane in. Damned rich boys. “If I’d known how to find you I’d have just sat tight at Harley’s place. Pretending to be a psychopath is definitely over my pay grade.”

“Next time you can use the Batsignal on top of Gotham City Hall. If I can’t make it, one of the other local superheroes will be able to contact you.”

I tilt my head sideways to look at Batman’s feet. Even with the Syndicate toppled it’s dangerous to be a hero in my world. You don’t go up on stage to shake the mayor’s hand, and you definitely don’t make it easy for any villain off the street to find you.

“I’m sorry, the what?” 

“Or have Police Commissioner Gordon call me on the Batphone.”

“The…Batphone. This whole time, there’s been a Batphone.”

Oh, that beautiful malicious whitefaced angel of mindscrew. I stagger to my feet and look around for Harley, but she’s gone. Jim taps my leg with his cane and points to the ceiling as Batman goes about binding up his doppelganger. Even with my body aching from countless blows that it’s only starting to enumerate, I’m on the roof in less than a minute. 

“A Bat-signal. A goshdarn effing Bat-signal. You led me on that stupid dress-up snipe hunt when you knew I could have gotten in touch with him whenever I wanted!” 

“Can you blame me for wanting to have a little fun?” Harley’s already on the other side of the building, ready to make a leap down to the shipping containers below. She giggles but it’s weak, more forced than her laughter in combat. “I could pretend for a little while. So could you. And don’t go telling me you didn’t want it.”

‘To be in that monster’s skin?” I’m still in it. I can feel the sludge of countless Jokers collecting in the furrows of my brain. 

“To be with a Harley.” She shakes her head, taking a few more steps towards the edge of the roof. “It don’t matter no more, anyway. You go on back to your Harley. I gotta go find my puddin’.” 

“You can’t!” I run toward her, try to grab her, but she dances out of my grasp. “He doesn’t love you! Harley, you stay with him and he’s going to kill you!”

She laughs, and it’s sickening. “Like I haven’t heard that one before. Joker just gets a little rough.” 

“ _He already has!_ ” I point to my poor spinning head. “I saw it in the phase oscillator. He already has, he already will, and he didn’t care. It’s not if, it’s when.” In my twisting storm I saw the horrid Smilex grin stretching her face, but her eyes were full of such sadness. She knew. She knows. And still she stayed.

The Harley in front of me is quiet. She’s backlit by a single street light, rendering it impossible to see an expression in her black silhouette. Her gloved hand takes mine and she steps up to plant the softest spring breeze kiss on the side of my helmet.

“You’re a nice guy, Jackie.” And then she’s gone. I stand on the roof and watch her red-tinted silhouette fade away into the smoggy night. 

“She always goes back, you know.” I turn. Batman’s there, with Jim at his back. Jim’s hat is tilted low over his monocle, which no longer seems to be judging me.

“Not always.” Not always. But I don’t know which way this one’s going to swing. The memories of other minds get shoved to the back of my head as I try to focus on the now and the here. 

“What about the phase oscillator?” Batman’s cradling it in his hands. One of the front tines is dented and there’s a blackened hole in the center where the bullet passed through the control panel. I did the right thing, I tell myself, even if I’ll never make it back again. My world was worth it.

Batman turns it over delicately, inspecting the hole as Jim peers over his shoulder. “I know a few people who specialize in this kind of technology. I don’t think it’s damaged beyond repair.”

I let out a captured breath. So I can go home. I can get out of this nightmare dimension and finally go home. It’s tempting to laugh but even attempting it makes me queasy. I slip my hands into my familiar pockets, shoulders slumping as I look out across the warehouses. Gotham River cuts an inky black trail below the countless gleaming dots of windows and streetlights that rise above the banks of the far shore. “So what do I do until then?”

Batman touches a hidden button in his belt and I hear the quiet engine of a car driving itself towards us. “How did you like the look of my place?”

\--

So I wind up in Bruce Wayne’s guest bedroom for the rest of the week while Jim heads back across the veil to let everyone know I’ll be home in either two months or two hours. It’s nearly like a vacation. No worrying about going out and fighting crime; Batman and his buddies have it covered. No worrying about folks hunting me down and murdering me in my bed, or worrying about getting a bed in the first place. Alfred’s a damn good cook, too, and the bathtub in the guest room is less jacuzzi and more inland sea. 

No matter what I do I still can’t get comfortable. There’s a persistent feeling of unease that lasts long after the memories of other mes have slipped away into oblivion.

“Dinner will be ready in an hour, sir.”

I look up from the couch. “Cool. Just bring it up to my room again. I’m tired from all that working out down in the Batcave, you know?”

He doesn’t leave. Stupid Britishness. I can’t tell a thing about what’s going on in his head and those eyes feel like they’re looking right through me. 

“No one will judge you here for what you look like, Red Hood. We know you are not the same man.”

Oh, geeze. I got this talk from Batman too. I wave a hand, trying to figure out what secret rich person sign will make him disappear. “It’s not…look, it’s not that. Not exactly. I just don’t like people looking at me. And after spending two days with everyone looking at me and hating me for it I don’t feel like taking my hat off at the dinner table.” 

“Would you mind indulging me on something, then? Only until dinner is ready.”

“I—yeah, fine.” If it makes him stop being British at me.

Alfred takes me back to a portion of the obscenely massive house that I haven’t been in yet. It’s a spare bedroom with cloths over all but one of the chairs and a dresser with a treasure trove of makeup laid out like a buffet spread.

I sigh. “It won’t work. It’s not just the color, my face is all the wrong shape too. You can’t concealer and rouge your way around a deformed mouth.” I know. I’ve tried. 

“Perhaps not. But there may be another way. Sit, please.”

I sit and strip off my helmet because after you’ve tied a guy to a chair with candy you owe him a few indulgences. When I close my eyes against the glare of the mirror he tells me to open them again, and then he comes after me with a box of foundation.

“It won’t work.”

“Then let me try regardless.”

Alfred is…an artist. A miracle worker. I watch every tiny movement of the brush as he changes the angle of my eyebrows and the curves of my cheekbones through false shadows and feigned light. My skin is not a pancake-makeup-slathered monotone expanse but augmented with the falsified irregularities of a human face. Faint lipstick paired with a concealer stick hides how far back my lips go, and Alfred has me both smile and frown to make sure the illusion sticks around no matter how I move. He does add a little bit of putty to the corners of my mouth, but it’s barely noticeable even when I’m talking. One of Batman’s wigs hides my hair and the whiteness of the skin made evident at the edges of my scalp.

When he’s done I sit and stare at myself, meeting my own eyes in a way I haven’t been able to do since the night I broke the mirror. It’s not exactly what I once was. The skin tone isn’t identical and my eyebrows ought to be darker. But I look gorgeously, hideously, wonderfully _normal_.

I make a soft, whimpering noise as Alfred smoothes down the hair of my wig. “Would you care to come to dinner now? I believe the roast should be through cooking.”

“Yes. Oh god, yes.”

Batman says nothing when he comes home, but he smiles at me across the baked Alaska, and I can finally smile back.

\--

By the time the phase oscillator is repaired I’ve gotten over the effects of being jolted through every alternate reality at once. Our first stop isn’t the Gotham of Earth-23 (I don’t know who numbers these things, why do we have to be 23?) or any Gotham at all, but an Earth where evolution took a different fork in the road before humans even showed up.

Batman helps me tow a few crates through the portal and then finishes with Owlman’s unconscious body. We’ve kept him in the same coma that my team used back in Earth-23 (can we at least give my world a name as well as a number? Earth-Sanity?) but heavily monitored by Martian Manhunter to make sure his mental functions didn’t make a single blip. I lay him out on bright grass dotted with blue flowers and clover, as a vole-shaped critter clicks its beak at us from atop a nearby boulder.

“When he wakes up, these supplies will give him what he needs to survive in a world without civilization or technology,” says Batman, unlocking Owlman’s bonds. Put next to each other the similarities in their faces are near-terrifying, but the way Batman speaks is different enough to comfort my residual panic. “There’s plenty of edible plants and animals, and the weather in this area of the planet is mild. If he tries hard enough he’ll have a long, if sparse life.”

“Finally, Owlman finds his world without a Red Hood. Hope he enjoys it.” 

As we bring through the final crate I look up on the cliffs high above the fertile valley, where something with sharp black wings is wrestling with a fat white lizard that writhes forcefully in its claws. Batman touches my shoulder and my gaze snaps away before I see who wins. We step back through the portal and I give one last, lingering look to the man who’s defined my entire life. His fingers twitch as he begins to wake up.

“He’s not you,” says Batman.

“So you keep telling me.”

“His choices aren’t yours either. Whatever force is binding our fates together across an entire multiverse, that doesn’t make what you do with your life irrelevant. I’m the only Batman I need to be worrying about. You’re the only Jackie Napier.”

The portal closes behind us. I can’t shake the feeling that somehow, _somehow_ Owlman will find a way out of this, but it’ll take him a good long time to invent a phase oscillator from a water purifier and a tinderbox. Until then, Gotham’s mine. We’ll chase down Pennyworth, ferret out the rest of Owlman’s lingering army, and I’ll do then a few things that I’ve been putting off until the fifth of never.

“Okay. Dial me up quick and get me the heck out of this joint.” I adjust my cape. In one hand I have a box of Alfred’s makeup, in the other a duplicate of the phase oscillator so we’ll both have a way across. I better not need it anytime soon. Batman clicks in the coordinates. I watch his fingers, memorizing the numbers anew, memorizing home. 

“You’ve got something important to do over there?” He better not be smiling—yep, he’s smiling. Jerk.

“Just someone I need to talk to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. That was far, far longer than I expected it to be when I started. I started it in a set of notebooks, written very slowly by hand when I first developed chronic pain issues that prevented me from using a keyboard. I stopped just before the ending because I couldn't decide where to cut it off. After many unpleasant months of medical trips and pain management training that made typing significantly easier, and then several months of forgetting this fic existed I decided to transcribe it back onto my computer. The original intent was to simply edit it into coherence but _that_ turned into extending it and enhancing it and now it's by far the longest fic I've ever written. And it's about AU dorks who wear tuxes and tic-tacs on their heads and fight men dressed like owls. My life is full of good decision-making.
> 
> While there's no clear justification for the shape of Red Hood's throwing knives in the show, the [Ace of Spades](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ace_of_Spades) has a lot of interesting cultural and folkloric implications that might have contributed to the design. The planet with the world-eater problem is a call-out to my very first fandom and fanfics thereof, so you know what transforming robots to blame for this existing in the first place.
> 
> My pirate AU borrows loosely from _Batman: Leatherwing_ , which I haven’t actually read but it’s a pirate AU so I feel obliged to run with the concept. The hyena woman AU has slight inspiration taken from Brave and the Bold’s Kamandi episodes. The Jack the Ripper one is based loosely on _Gotham by Gaslight_ and steampunk/Victorian AU in general. The feudal Japan AU is derived from genesischant’s [Chambara Justice League](http://genesischant.deviantart.com/gallery/?catpath=%2F&q=chambara) art series. Joker's chapter is, obviously, the interrogation scene from _The Dark Knight_. I just really love AUs.
> 
> Read, review, let me know what you think. My next fic will ideally be quite a lot shorter...but no promises.


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